


Small Mercies

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dean Whump, Gen, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Humor, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2006-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something not quite right about the latest haunted house the Winchesters are investigating. Why are the ghosts picking on Dean? What has the song 'Bright Eyes' got to do with it? And why do all little old ladies fancy Sam? Contains Dean whumping, a few bad jokes and a flying knockwurst. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


Note: I wrote this way back in season one - one of my very first fics. Thought I'd preserve it on AO3!

~ ~ ~

"Aha! You must be the famous Winchester twins. I've heard so much about you!"

Blinking in the light streaming through the doorway, the new arrivals froze as their host greeted them in a voice so loud it would have stunned a bat at twenty paces. Dean opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Sam, on the other hand, turned on his million-watt smile.

"Uh, no… we're not twins, just brothers," he pointed out. "I'm Sam and this is Dean. It's nice to meet you, Mrs Templeton."

"You're the older one, right?" the old lady declared, peering at him through the glasses perched delicately on her nose. She was small, immaculately dressed in a twin-set and pearls, her silver hair gleaming in the light from the chandeliered hall. "Of course you're the oldest. Look how tall you are! Why, I practically have to stand on a ladder to look you in the eye!"

Sam felt an elbow in his side and heard Dean say, "No, ma'am. I'm the oldest. Sam got the height in our family. I got the brains and the good looks."

Sam elbowed him back. Hard.

Mrs Templeton waved her hands in the air. For a moment it seemed as though she was batting away a moth; then they realised she was pretending to be staggered. As far as old dears went, this one was obviously a bit of a character.

"Well, I'll be. I'd never have known. You're such handsome lads, too! Your father must be very proud. He said such good things about you boys, about how you'd be able to help me. I really don't know who else to turn to! I still can't quite believe my son managed to find him. Isn't the internet wonderful? Don't understand it myself, all those buttons and pages; it's nonsense to an old fool like me. But thankfully Stephen knows how to look in chat-malls or whatever they're called and found John straight away."

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, the same thought in their heads: how come John Winchester could answer her phone call and not theirs? All they got were coordinates or, in this case, an address and a brief description of the trouble by text message. Sam watched Dean clench his jaw, feeling his stomach flip in familiar anger. However, now wasn't the best time for sulking. Mrs Templeton gestured for her guests to follow her into the house, talking non-stop as they came to a halt in the palatial hallway.

"I mean, honestly, if anyone had ever said to me when I was younger, 'Martha, you'll be tripping over ghosts one day,' I'd have thought they were soft in the head. But they're here! I see them all the time, flitting here and there. Like little comets, they are. Three whole weeks now. And the cold spots! The noises! Why, I've barely slept. Father Prendergast was no help whatsoever. I swear, he was looking me up and down, thinking I needed to be carted off to the funny farm, and he said he performed an exorcism but that same night I felt something run across my bed and then there was this terrible screeching… I could have died. I really could. I don't know how I haven't yet. My poor heart just stops and starts. It's unbearable."

Sam tried to listen but his eyes were scanning the impressive staircase before them, taking in the gallery of paintings hung on every spot of wall space. An ancient ivory cabinet sat at the foot of the stairs, next to an enormous palm tree in a pot that looked far too expensive to have soil in it. The mansion was newly built but already had the feel of an old house, stuffed with furniture and antiques and smelling faintly of mothballs. Old things, he thought. They all had a history. And this was just the hallway; there were at least another twenty-five rooms, all piled high with items that could stir up the spirit world, resonating with their pasts.

One thing was for sure: this made a change from their usual hunts, which usually took place in abandoned buildings or ruins. They wouldn't be burning this house down to exorcise a ghost - it had to be worth millions. If he so much as saw Dean pull out a lighter he'd jump on him.

"So, ah, could you identify what you've seen?" Dean asked, cutting off the old lady's twitterings. "Man, woman, child?"

"Oh no, all I see are streaks of movement, nothing solid," Mrs Templeton replied. "Flashes, if you will. Very fast. But they're always under my feet and I keep tripping over them. It's like they race each other around the house."

"Have any objects been moving around?" Sam queried, thinking of poltergeists.

"No, no, nothing's been broken. And I'm grateful: I own some priceless antiques." She wagged a finger in the air. "I'd like you to remember that during your stay, boys. If you break anything… well, that comes out of your own pockets."

The brothers nodded like naughty schoolkids, unsure of how else to react. Sam wondered how they were going to get rid of anything without a shotgun. Why was rock salt so damned messy?

"Good, I'm glad we got that cleared up. Now, I'm staying with a friend tonight because sleeping here has become impossible. I know, it's strange, allowing two complete strangers to have free rein to wander around my home while I'm out!" She giggled, sounding younger than her years. "Lord knows what my friend Clara would say. My son will pop by later to check how you're getting on, by the way, but he's a surgeon and he's working for most of tonight. He's a little worried about you being here, as I'm sure you can understand."

"Perfectly," Dean agreed, his eyes darting from one expensive painting to another.

"Doesn't want you stealing anything, that's all he's worried about. But I trust you: your father vouched for you and he sounded like good people, so I'm sure you are too. I'm usually a very good judge of character. But while you're alone here, don't go through my underwear drawer, alright?"

Sam noticed she looked right at Dean when she said that. He blushed and shook his head earnestly. "No, ma'am."

"I'm only joking, don't worry!" She giggled again. "Right, let's show you to your rooms. I've put you in the guest wing but I don't expect you'll be sleeping much tonight. Too much going on! You'll be amazed, you really will. If you don't believe in ghosts you certainly will after tonight."

"I'm sure it'll be an eye-opener," Dean muttered, wryly.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They ate that night in a kitchen so huge Dean spent ten minutes jumping in and out of the enormous walk-in freezer, making lame gags about it being "cool", until Sam threw a bagel at him and told him to grow up. As promised, Mrs Templeton's son, Stephen, dropped by at ten o'clock. He stared at the brothers shrewdly for a while, sussing out Dean in particular. Sam was starting to wonder if his brother was giving off an "I'm an underwear-sniffer" vibe. At least his own face appeared to stir up no suspicion.

"My mother's very impressionable," Stephen Templeton was explaining. "I thought she was imagining things until I saw one of them myself. Freakiest goddamned thing I've ever seen. That's when I started asking around online, trying to find out what to do about it. Your father contacted me and said he'd send you along. I don't know if you guys can help, but my mother's so freaked out we'll try anything at the moment."

"Do you live here too?" asked Sam, trying not to bristle at the way his father had offered them up, as though his sons lived to do his bidding.

"On and off. I have a place by the hospital for when I'm working."

"Who built this house?" Dean queried.

Stephen removed his glasses and cleaned them, hunching up slightly and looking surprisingly like his mother. "I did. After my father died I used his inheritance to buy up this land and build a family home. Want to raise my own kids here someday." He grinned. "If ever I actually meet someone. Being a surgeon really messes with your social life."

"Try doing what we do," Sam murmered, and he felt Dean give him a sympathetic look.

"Clark Howson University was here before the house," Stephen supplied, helpfully. "They moved downtown in 2003 and I built this place a year later."

"Any idea what was here before the university?" Sam was already typing its name into Google.

"None." Stephen shook his head. "Reckon this is an old Indian burial ground or something? Have we stirred up some old Native American tribe?"

Dean stood and poured another mug of coffee. "No idea. Guess we'll be hitting the library tomorrow, unless research boy here can find anything online."

Stephen stared at them for a long moment before asking, "So you guys really do exorcise houses? No shit?"

Sam looked up from under his bangs and gave him a half-smile. "No shit."

"Oh." Stephen looked nonplussed. "Uh, how's that working out for you?"

"Late nights, piles of weaponry, lots of grateful chicks," Dean spelled out. "How's being a surgeon?"

"Um, just the late nights, really."

Sam scratched his neck and pointed at his laptop. "Okay, I've found some stuff about the university, but it doesn't look promising." His fingers clicked on the keyboard. "Not much about its history, except that it was established in 1957." He looked up at Dean. "If it's not the site, maybe it's something in the house. An object of some sort."

"Has your mother bought any antiques recently?" asked Dean. "Say, around the time this started happening?"

"I don't think so," Stephen frowned. "She's been doing a lot of work for charity at the moment and that's where all her money's been going." He looked down at his watch. "It's getting late; I'd better go. I have to biopsy a lung in an hour."

"And you think _our_ life is strange," Dean grimaced. He pulled their homemade EMF meter out of his pocket and poked Sam on the shoulder with it. "Okay, dude. Reckon we should take a look around this place and see what gets this thing juiced. Time to flush out some ghosties..."

 

~ ~ ~

It was 3am before anything happened. The brothers checked room after room, marvelling at how much old stuff could be piled into a new house, finding it strange to flick on lightswitches instead of hunting by torchlight. They'd just finished their second sweep of one of the upstairs bathrooms when they heard it. A soft mewing sound, like a small child keening, or an animal gently calling for its mother. It was coming from downstairs.

Sam felt the familiar buzz of adrenaline spreading through his system as he followed his brother along the hallway and down the impressive staircase. They approached the noise and the EMF meter in Dean's hand lit up spectacularly.

"It's coming from in there," he whispered, pointing at a drawing room. Sam nodded, took a step forward…and nearly tripped as something brown and amorphous flitted by his feet. It shot through Dean's legs and vanished into the room, gone as quickly as it came.

"Woah," Sam breathed. "Did you see that, man?"

"Hmm. 'Like little comets,'" Dean repeated, grinning. "She wasn't too far off with that description. Damn, that thing could move!"

They investigated the drawing room but found nothing: the noise stopped the instant they crossed the threshold and the EMF meter slipped back to normal. Perplexed, Sam was about to speak when a loud thumping reverberated through the house. Without a word they headed back up the staircase and towards the source.

"There," hissed Dean, nodding towards one of the mansion's few unused rooms. They'd inspected it earlier and found it filled with junk, undecorated, awaiting a metamorphosis into another guest room or a second office or whatever kind of space this house had left to need. The door was shut, which was ominous, because Sam remembered leaving it open.

Another thump. "Sounds like someone's moving furniture around," Sam said, shotgun at the ready. "Remember, Dean, we can't aim at anything valuable."

"I think you'll find that I'm more than capable of shooting a Ming vase or two if something tries to suck my face off," Dean muttered. "Okay, let's go."

He booted open the door and they piled into the room… just as the noise stopped. Compared to the warmth of the hallway, the air was freezing. Their breath plumed as smoke from their mouths. Sam shone his torch around, seeing nothing untoward, then looked at Dean. The EMF meter in his brother's hand was spiking furiously.

"It's definitely in here," Dean said. He flipped on the light, but it didn't work. "Great."

The bulb shining through from the hallway illuminated a pile of boxes, an old wardrobe and some cabinets. Nothing moved. The curtains were drawn and the furthest corner of the room remained in shadows.

Dean licked his lips. "I think we need to… OUCH!" He clutched at his leg and began to hop, his face grimaced in pain. "Something clawed me!"

Sam looked down and saw blood seeping through the jeans fabric at his ankle. Sweeping his torch beam across the floor in search of the attacker, he felt his own legs start to twitch, already anticipating another strike. "Did you see it?"

"No, but I damn well _felt_ it." Dean followed him as he moved, cursing softly. "Little bastard," he grumbled. "Why my ankle, of all places? What is this thing, anyway? Chucky?"

"Shhh!" hushed Sam. He listened intently and then flicked his torch over towards the furniture. "I think there's something in that wardrobe."

Dean pocketed the EMF meter and pulled out his gun. Holding their weapons stiffly before them, they came to a halt just before the doors. Something was definitely moving inside; they could hear a soft rustling.

"One… two… three!" mouthed Dean, and he yanked open the doors as Sam aimed his gun.

There was a bestial screech and something dark and billowy launched itself from the interior of the wardrobe, slamming into Dean and knocking him off his feet. He yelled, dropping his flashlight and the gun. "Sam!" he shrieked. "Get it off me!"

Sam couldn't shoot without hitting him and so, without a second thought, he reached down and yanked the thing upwards as hard as he could. It was furry and light and he tossed it back into the wardrobe with ease. Then he slammed the doors shut and leaned back against them, breathing hard.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

His brother's expression was thunderous. He struggled to his feet and snatched up his gun and torch, wiping an arm over his face. "Bastard tried to smother me," he snapped. He coughed, spat on the ground - Mrs Templeton wouldn't have approved - and then shook himself. "It tasted of mothballs."

"On three again?" asked Sam, indicating the wardrobe. "I think we can get it this time…" He stopped. "Is it my imagination or has it just gotten warmer in here?"

Dean sniffed and reached into his pocket for the EMF meter. It was dead. He gave Sam an angry look and beckoned him out of the way. "Let's see if it's really gone, shall we?"

Sam nodded, then tugged the door open.

Nothing happened. Dean peered inside, cautiously. He shot Sam a puzzled look and pulled something out into the torchlight. "Uh…"

Sam stared at it for a few seconds, feeling a smile twitch at his lips.

"Man, you got attacked by a fur coat. That's just dumb."

"It was moving," Dean pointed out, miffed. "It tried to kill me!"

Sam chuckled. "Try it on, dude. I think it goes with your eyes."

"Shut up!" Dean threw the offending piece of clothing back into the wardrobe and closed the door. "That was an EVIL fur coat," he said, firmly. "It was freakin' possessed. You saw it!"

The light above their heads suddenly blinked into life, dazzling them. Dean looked at it, exasperated, and then peered down at his bloody ankle. "What the hell is going on in this house?" he asked the universe in general.

"No idea," answered Sam, truthfully. "But I have a feeling it's over for tonight. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. Unless you want to snuggle with your furry friend again."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Those kids would never have made it to Narnia if _their_ wardrobe had been filled with coats like that."

 

 

~ ~ ~


	2. strangenessandcharm | Small Mercies, Part Two

  


 

~ ~ ~

The cuts on Dean's ankle were only superficial, looking for all the world like someone had raked a fork across his skin a couple of times. Sam could tell they weren't serious because his brother griped and groaned about them. If he really was in pain, he'd have kept it to himself. That was Winchester psychology for you. At times Sam wondered what kind of person would whinge about some tiny clawmarks but not utter a word about breaking his arm back when he was 18, choosing to pretend nothing was wrong until the pain got so bad he threw up in the Impala. There had to be some insanity running through his family; if their dad wasn't off chasing a demon, Sam thought, he'd ask him about it.

Although, come to think of it, that sentence was pretty much all the proof they needed.

"Right, so it's not a poltergeist," Dean snapped, balling up a bloodied sock and tossing it across the room to land in his rucksack (a shot that wouldn't have disgraced a champion basketball player, Sam thought idly). "It's definitely a haunting of some kind. I think there's more than one ghost, too. But what was that fur coat business about?"

"The ability to bring inanimate objects to life," Sam mused, flicking through their journal. "A few things can do that. Reckon it's a boggart?"

Dean thought about it. "The sick sense of humour is there, true, but I'm not sure. How come nothing like that happened to the old lady over the last few weeks? Why wait for us to arrive before pulling some tricks? I think a boggart would've been doing stuff like that from the start. It wouldn't have been able to help itself. Although it wouldn't hurt to leave a saucer of milk out for it, just in case."

Sam nodded. "That's one thing we can try. I don't think it's a boggart, though. I'm sure we've got a houseful of ghosts. Boggarts don't make cold spots."

Dean sighed and leaned back on his headboard, wincing theatrically as he brushed the Band-aids on his ankle with his other leg. "So, it's a haunting. Where do we start?"

"Library."

"Oh, joy. That's tomorrow taken care of, then." He looked at his watch, which read 6am. "Make that 'this afternoon'. We'd better get some sleep, dude."

Sam stood and stretched. "Hey," he said, with a sly grin. "When was the last time we had separate rooms?"

Dean groaned in exaggerated pleasure. "Oh, man. I can't even remember. Let alone ones with ensuite bathrooms. I could get used to this!"

"Gonna miss me?"

"Yeah, like I miss gonorrhea. Now get the hell out of my room, would ya?"

 

~ ~ ~

 

Dean pulled on his leather jacket. "Well, if the university had a big bad secret, we're sure not gonna find it this way."

Sam nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. The local library had answered a few questions, such as what was on the site before the university (nothing but trees) and if anybody had died on the campus (in its 45-year history only three students had met their demise there: from an asthma attack, an aneurysm and a trip down a staircase resulting in a broken neck, respectively). Dean had spent two hours scanning funeral notices on an ancient microfiche machine and concluded all three victims were cremated. His eyes had gone funny, and Sam's back was aching from poring over university yearbooks, but they were no closer to finding the cause of the haunting.

To say they were frustrated was a bit of an understatement.

"So what's the plan for tonight?" Sam asked, as they climbed into the car. "There's not much we can do, really, is there?"

"We watch and learn," Dean said, turning the key in the ignition. "That's all there is. Keep following the little bastards around until they leave us a clue of some sort." He gave Sam a serious look. "And wear boots so they don't go for our ankles again."

~ ~ ~

When they got back Martha Templeton had prepared dinner and invited her friend, Clara, to dine with them. Dean was about to decline the offer of food but Sam, realising their host would be offended, kicked him on his good ankle and accepted the invitation. An hour later, Sam wasn't sure what he found more amusing: Dean's uncomfortable body language as they ate off a dining table worth more than the Impala, using cutlery worth more than every possession they owned put together; or Clara's wide-eyed, awed glances at the two men on the other side of the table. She'd obviously been told all about them by Martha and, despite being in her 70s, was gazing at them wistfully as though she was sharing her meal with Indiana Jones and Sherlock Holmes. Sam hoped he was Indy, though he suspected the old lady was mentally fitting him out with a pipe and a deerstalker. After all, Dean already had the leather jacket and the cocky grin.

"So how did you boys start hunting ghosts?" Clara asked, as their excruciating dinner conversation finally turned away from the delights of crotchet.

Sam looked across at his brother, deciding to let him take this one. He knew that if Dean told the truth, the old dears would fuss around them all night, chock full o' sympathy and mothering instinct. Or they'd be scared. Either way, it would be unbearable.

"It was just a hobby of Dad's," Dean explained with admirable casualness, stabbing at his bacon. The solid silver fork was heavy and he clunked the plate harder than he'd intended. Coughing to hide his embarrassment, he added, "He got us interested. Sam did take some time out to go to Stanford, but it's pretty much our full-time family business now."

"Stanford?" cooed Clara, batting her eyelashes from under her over-permed hair. "You must be very intelligent, Sam! I think intelligence is so underrated in men."

Oh no, Sam thought. I'm definitely Sherlock Holmes now. Why does Dean get to have all the fun? How come he gets the bullwhip? His brother was staring at him with a deeply aggravating grin and Sam had to fight the urge to throw his wine over it.

"Can we just ask something?" interrupted Martha, placing her glass on the table. "Why is there a saucer of milk sitting on the floor of the drawing room?"

"It's to tempt a boggart," Sam explained, grateful for the change of topic.

"Of course," answered Martha. "It's for a boggart, Clara."

"Oh," said Clara.

Both ladies stared at their plates for a moment.

"What's a boggart?" asked Martha.

Dean sipped some wine, grimacing slightly and no doubt wishing it was beer. "It's a mischievous spirit. They sometimes move into houses and cause trouble, although nothing really serious: they're jokers, more than anything. They like milk and if you leave a saucer out for them it makes them happy."

"Do you think this is a boggart, then?"

Dean shook his head. "My instinct tells me this is a haunting, but we're just being thorough. What I can't understand is why you said these ghosts didn't move anything around, when last night they were banging and crashing furniture and throwing fur coats at me."

Martha pursed her lips. "I know, that is strange. Nothing like that's happened to me. Although I will say that Stephen nearly tripped over one of the apparitions and fell down the stairs last week… perhaps it wasn't an accident? Maybe it meant to make him fall?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but something caught his eye: a movement in the corner of the room. He stared, spider-senses tingling, and it only took Dean a few seconds to cotton on, twisting in his chair to look as well.

"What is it?" came a querulous voice. Clara, still getting used to the idea of having luncheon in a haunted house with two ghost hunters, sounded nervous.

"Something moved in that bag over there," murmured Sam.

"That's my knitting bag," Martha observed. "There's nothing in it but wool and needles."

The linen bag had a picture of a kitten on its side. It was perched on a walnut coffee table next to the embroidery Clara had shown the boys earlier (during a particularly exciting part of their meal). As everybody stared, the bag wobbled slightly, then fell over and spilled several balls of blue and green wool onto the floor.

"It just overbalanced," breathed Clara, grinning happily. "No ghosts!"

But even as she spoke, one of the bundles shot up into the air and being to unravel at a furious speed, wool flying everywhichway in giant loops. As the two women sat gawking, Sam and Dean jumped to their feet and placed themselves between the wool and their hosts.

"You need to leave," Sam ordered, waving a hand at them. "Get outside. Now!"

Martha grabbed Clara's arm and pulled her out of the room; her friend was so stunned she could barely walk. Sam stared as another bundle floated from the ground and began to unspool, then nudged his brother. "We need to go too. It might start throwing knitting needles around next."

Dean was frowning at the mayhem. "There must be some sort of rite we can use for this kind of stuff," he muttered in an annoyed tone of voice. "We can't exorcise this thing because we don't know where its remains are, but surely we can… I dunno, confine it somewhere? Temporarily?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam murmured, eyeing up the wool suspiciously. "We should get our kit from upstairs…"

The first ball was completely unravelled now. The wool hung in the air for a moment before suddenly gathering itself together into a loop like a creepy lasso.

"Uh-oh," said Dean, backing away. "This doesn't look good."

In a split second, the lasso dropped over his head and tightened around his chest, pinning both of his arms to his sides. An invisible force yanked the wool and knocked him flat on his back, eliciting a sharp yell of surprise from him as he hit the floor. Sam cried his name just as the second ball of wool finished unravelling and a spiderweb of green string arced through the air, settling around Dean's throat. He gasped and tried to lift his hands to untangle it, but the lasso around his chest drew even tighter, not only immobilising his hands but also crushing his lungs.

"Dean!" yelled Sam again and he fell to his knees beside his brother, his own safety forgotten. He scrabbled with the wool, but it had been drawn so tight against Dean's body that he couldn't budge it an inch. Dean's shocked eyes met his for a few seconds and then he began to choke, fighting for breath around the twisted imitation of a woolly scarf at his throat.

Scissors! He needed scissors! Sam looked around frantically before his gaze settled on one of the silver knives on the dining table. It was in his hand in an instant and then he was desperately hacking at the wool, realising as he did so that there was too much of it for him to cut through. Dean arched off the floor as he worked, struggling to breathe, his face bright red from the effort of trying to draw oxygen.

"Hang on, Dean!" Sam shouted, fear making his voice gruff. "Keep fighting it!"

But he couldn't cut the strands quickly enough; there were too many of them tangled around his brother's throat and ribcage. Dean made a horrible, cut-off gurgling noise and his eyes rolled upwards while Sam sliced at his bonds. As his lips began to turn blue, Sam yelled in despair and fury as he realised he was going to lose him.

Then Martha Templeton was at his side, kitchen scissors in one hand, snipping away ten times faster than Sam could slice. The seconds ticked by as they both worked: Sam on Dean's throat, Martha on his chest. Fluffy wool began to pile up next to Dean's head. Finally, as though realising the game was up, the strings sagged, loosened and lay still, the spell broken.

Sam tugged the last of the string from around his brother's throat, wincing as he saw red welts forming on the skin. Dean was still for a moment and then began drawing huge, painful, gulping breaths, his eyes slammed shut and his body shaking. Martha snipped the last threads around his chest and Dean lifted his hands to his throat, coughing roughly. Sam squeezed his shoulder with relief, unable to believe how quickly everything had just happened.

"He'll be okay," said Martha, her voice shaking. "He'll be fine, I'm sure… Oh, I'm so sorry I brought you boys here. He could have died!"

"It's alright," soothed Sam, sounding far more calm than he felt. "You helped me save him. That's all that matters now."

Dean opened watery eyes and gazed up at both of them, rubbing his windpipe and panting. "Sam," he rasped, sounding nothing like himself. "W-water…"

"I'll get some," offered their host. She climbed creakily to her feet and nervously pulled her skirt straight before hurrying into the kitchen.

"Thank you," Sam called. "Oh, and Mrs Templeton?"

She stopped. "Please, call me Martha."

"Martha, then. This is important. The next time I tell you to leave, don't come back. You could've been killed."

The old lady turned as white as a sheet and nodded.

"I've always known knitting was evil," Dean croaked from the floor. Then he coughed for five minutes straight.

~ ~ ~


	3. strangenessandcharm | Small Mercies, Part Three

  


  
~ ~ ~

"I don't see why it's picked on me three times now," grumbled Dean later that night, after he'd rested and swallowed liberal amounts of warm honey for his sore throat. His voice still sounded raw and the welts around his neck looked painful, but at least he was alive.

Sam's heart, meanwhile, had only just found its normal rhythm again.

He sat on Dean's bed and flicked through his father's journal for the millionth time as his brother mixed a sweet-smelling solution of holy water and herbs. If they couldn't exorcise this thing, or even shoot at it, maybe they could immobilise it in other ways. It was worth a try, at least.

"I mean, what have I done to make it hate me?" Dean continued, and though Sam wasn't looking at him he knew he was pouting. "First it claws me, then it attacks me with a coat, then it tries to strangle me with somebody's knitting. Which, may I add, is probably the most dumb-assed, embarrassing way to die, period. I'd have been so humiliated if it had worked. Talk about lame."

"How _would_ you like to go, then?" Sam wondered, still not looking up from the journal.

Dean gazed into space, a small grin curling his lip. "Let's just say it involves me being sucked into one of Gwen Stefani's music videos."

Sam smiled. "Not bad."

"Better than freakin' death by knitting, that's for sure. Man, how girlie is that? What's it gonna do next? Beat me up with a donut? Poke me with a pillow? Smother me in flower petals?"

"Dean."

"Drown me in lip gloss?"

"Dean!"

"What?"

"It's cold."

Sure enough, the temperature was dropping. Dean tossed a holy water pistol at his brother and held one out himself. Crude, true, but hopefully effective. It was dark outside and they didn't trust the electric lighting to stay on, so they both grabbed torches as they stood.

"Right," Dean growled, his sore throat making him sound unusually menacing. "Bring it on, you sonofabitch."

A shape began to dart around the room, fast and low to the ground, weaving in and out of the furniture and their legs. After half a minute another one joined it, then a third.

"Are they going to do anything?" Sam asked, wondering if they should squirt their holy water at the phantoms. They didn't seem to be causing any harm.

"They're making me dizzy," Dean grunted, trying to keep them in his gunsights.

Sam suddenly realised he had the most astonishing sense of déjà vu. "I've seen these things before," he announced, perplexed. "They look familiar, but I can't think why."

"Dad's journal?"

"No, no, I've seen them moving. Damn! Why can't I remember?"

There was an unsettling growling noise and the sprites vanished. The brothers looked around the room, trying to pin down the source, before realising it was coming from the door.

"Is it in the hallway?" Dean asked, shifting the water pistol in his hand.

"No, it's not," Sam answered, amazed. "Dude, it's coming from your jacket!"

Sure enough, Dean's leather jacket, hanging innocently on the back of the door, was _growling_.

"What the fuck?" Dean swore, raising his eyebrows in shock. "That's my goddamned jacket! They've possessed it! Of all the goddamn cheek…!"

He raised his water pistol and squirted the concoction he'd just mixed at the leather. The jacket twitched on its hook, then fell silent. A moment later, the temperature in the room returned to normal.

"This is so royally fucked up, I can't even process it," Dean said wearily, leaning on the mantelpiece for support and rubbing his throat. "I feel like we're trapped in a movie or something. Some rotten Disney film with talking furniture."

" _Watership Down_ ," Sam muttered quietly, his eyes glazed over.

Dean gave him a puzzled look. "There's no talking furniture in _Watership Down_ , you doofus. You're thinking of _Beauty And The Beast_. There's a singing wardrobe in that one."

But Sam was shaking his head, immersed in a full-on "Eureka!" moment. "I remember where I've seen those shapes before, Dean. _Watership Down_! You know the ghost rabbits? The silhouettes that fly around during 'Bright Eyes'? These things are almost identical!"

Dean studied him. "'Bright Eyes'? Man, you watched far too much sappy TV when you were a kid."

Sam sighed. "What else was I supposed to do while you and dad were out hunting? There's only so long you can play Travel Scrabble by yourself, you know."

"So these things look like the dead bunnies from _Watership Down_ ," Dean declared, exasperated. "Meaning what, exactly? The animators are responsible for all of this?"

"No, it's just a coincidence, and it made me think of something. We've been assuming all the stuff happening in this house is down to a human haunting. I don't think it is, Dean. I think these are animals."

Dean plopped down on the bed. "Animals."

"Yeah. Think about it. You got clawed on the ankle. A cat, maybe? Then a fur coat comes to life, and your leather jacket. Both dead animals. The wool? That's from an animal, too. It would make sense that if these ghosts can make anything move, they'd choose things associated with their kind. Plus, all the noises we've heard could've been made by animals, and the shapes flitting about… either rabbits or cats. Or small dogs, I'm not sure. Whatever - they're definitely not human."

Dean rubbed his chin. "I think you've got something there." His eyes widened. "And the reason they never attacked the old lady? I'll bet you dollars to donuts all the charity work she does is for animal shelters. They wouldn't touch her."

"Or me," Sam nodded. "I love animals. I was even going to go vegetarian a few years back, remember?"

"Yeah, but only for about five minutes, you wuss," Dean corrected. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "They must think I hate them and that's why they've got it in for me. But why would they think that?"

Sam bit his lip, then nodded towards the door. Dean followed his gaze. "Oh, come on? Because I wear a leather jacket?"

"And leather boots. Whereas I wear a denim jacket and Converse All-Stars."

"Little bastards," groaned Dean. "Talk about judging by appearances! And I love animals, too!"

Sam scowled at him.

"Alright, maybe I just like dogs."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Oh alright, I'll admit it: one dog. But Hong Kong Phooey _is_ the number one superguy."

Sam was back to business. "Right, so we've got the culprits; now we have to figure out where their remains are." He pulled out his phone and dialled Martha's number, explaining the situation to her hurriedly when she answered. "We need to know if there's any connection between this house and animals," he prodded, as Dean cautiously picked up his jacket, looking scared it might bite him. "Uh-huh… Right… Okay… If you don't mind me asking, what did you do with…? Well, that tells us something. Thanks."

He dropped the phone and stared up at Dean, who was holding his jacket at arm's length and inspecting it suspiciously. "She says that until two months ago she lived here with her pet spaniel. He died in his sleep and she's been looking into getting another one."

"So that's what sparked all this off, then," Dean mused. "The dog died and his spirit rounded up all the other critters."

"She had him cremated, though, and spread his ashes along their favourite walk. I think he was just the catalyst for stirring up all the rest of these creatures. And I think they were just getting warmed up over the last few weeks and we've arrived in time for the grand finale."

There was a crashing noise from below their feet, followed by a sound which was a cross between a bark and a howl. The brothers tensed and stared at each other.

"Okay… so our furry friends want us to investigate," Dean said, dryly. "Do we fall for it? I'm not sure I can handle being teased by a spooky kitten."

"I don't think we have a choice," Sam theorised. "It's like you said earlier, we have to keep watching them to pick up clues. They might show us something that'll help."

"Or we could trip over a bunny wabbit and fall down the staircase."

Sam gave him a rueful grin. "Good job we didn't bring our lucky rabbit's feet. That would have really made 'em mad."

~ ~ ~

They made their way downstairs so carefully it was almost comical. Dean was taking no chances: shotgun under one arm, holy water pistol in one hand and torch in the other. The lights flickered on and off as they walked. Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as they reached the bottom of the staircase and hit a blast of unnaturally chilly air. He suddenly felt paranoid, determined to keep an eye out for his brother: these ghosts might just be animals, but they certainly knew how to hold a grudge. Dean, for his part, kept swallowing hard. He probably would have blamed it on his sore throat, but Sam knew him better than that.

"Keep your eyes open for anything made from an animal," Sam whispered. "Leatherbound books, fur throws, things like that. They can turn anything into a weapon."

"That's about half the house," Dean grimaced. "This should be fun."

Another crash sounded, this time in the kitchen. They stalked into the enormous room and Sam flicked on the neon lights, which fizzed and flickered. "There," barked Dean. Sam followed his gaze and saw the enormous freezer door was wide open, clouds of frost pooling on the stone floor. He frowned as he stared at the machine's contents. Something was moving around inside…

"Down!" he yelled, as a frozen ham shot off a shelf and headed straight for them. They hit the floor at the same second and rolled sideways as another hunk of meat smashed into the wall between them. Of course, thought Sam frantically: just about everything in the freezer was alive once. All of it was potential ammunition. They'd just walked into a firing range!

"Goddamn it!" cursed Dean, as a sausage flew through the air and bounced off the kitchen counter in front of him. "What was it I was saying earlier about embarrassing ways to die? Being brained by a knockwurst is definitely on the list!"

A bowl of something unidentifiable smashed a few feet from Sam, splinters of glass cutting his hand. He yelped, then managed to roll towards Dean so they crouched behind the same counter. "Well, what do we do now?"

"There must be some way we can find out where these animals' remains are," grunted Dean. "Someone must have killed a whole bunch of them to cause all this."

"I shouldn't think it was Martha or Stephen," Sam said, ducking as a dish of lasagne hit the wall behind him. "So it must have been someone at the university."

And then it hit them both at the same time:

The university taught biology. And biology classes meant… vivisection.

"Oh my god," cried Sam. "I can't believe we didn't think of it sooner! Not all the remains would have been disposed of - they might have kept some for teaching."

"They must be at the new campus," panted Dean. "Probably pickled in specimen jars. We have to find them." A packet of beefburgers spun through the air like a frisbee, falling short of its goal and sliding across the floor. The sound of the cardboard skidding across the stone almost drowned out his next words. "First things first, though - how do we get out of here?"

Sam popped his head over the counter and peered into the freezer. "Not much left," he observed, then winced as a pork chop slammed into his shoulder. "Ouch!" He crouched down again, rubbing his shoulder and then cradling his bloody hand. "You know, this is probably the weirdest moment of my life."

Dean grinned. "Think this is weird? You should have been there when me and dad exorcised that hippy suicide cult from the '60s. Man, that was screwy."

"Yeah, well, I was probably in some motel room watching _Watership Down_ by myself while you were having…"

The doorbell suddenly rang.

Everything went silent. The freezer door creaked slightly and then slammed shut.

Sam looked at his watch. "10pm. That must be Stephen."

"We can't let him in. It's too dangerous."

"He's got a key."

"Christ. They're not gonna let him out of here alive. He's critter fodder!"

They jumped to their feet and ran towards the entranceway, almost slipping on the frozen meat mush on the floor. As they rounded the corner, the front door swung open and Stephen Templeton stepped into the house. "Hello?" he called, then stopped dead as he saw the brothers racing towards him.

They must have looked insane: covered in splatter from twenty different types of meat, hefting water pistols and a shotgun, Sam's left hand dripping blood onto the carpet. Sam yelled at him to get outside but, understandably, Stephen simply stood still in shock.

But things were about to get serious. The ivory cabinet at the base of the staircase suddenly rattled, then lifted a few feet off the ground. Sam felt his brain making the connection: ivory, of course, came from an elephant…

Dean figured it out before him. He threw himself at Stephen like a missile, sending him spinning out of the front door. The onward momentum threw Dean into the wall next to the doorframe; he staggered and dropped his weapons. Before Sam could cry a warning the cabinet swished through the air and hit Dean full-on, pinning him against the plaster. The china inside smashed to pieces and spilled out on the floor, shards sliding in every direction.

The cabinet's legs dropped down to the ground and it backed up, scraping the immaculate wooden flooring, before shooting forward and pounding into Dean a second time. His brother yelled in pain as Sam flung himself on the piece of furniture, trying to drag it backwards, but it shook him off like a bucking bronco. Sam hit the ground ten feet away and cracked his head on the floor.

He saw stars for a moment before his trusted ally, adrenaline, kicked in with a vengeance. He sat upright, blinked, then scrambled to his feet in time to see the cabinet fly backwards, allowing Dean the space to slide down the wall and hit the floor. He landed on his back, clutching at his ribs. The cabinet teetered menacingly over him for a second and then toppled over, landing squarely on his chest. Dean cried out again.

Sam darted over and tried to pull the object off him, but it wasn't playing. It weighed far more than any ivory cabinet had a right to, as though invisible hands were holding it down. Which, in all probability, they were. Except they were paws, not hands.

"Get it off me," gasped Dean, his face twisted in pain. One of his arms was pinned underneath the cabinet and he was pushing feebly at it with his other hand. The piece of furniture wasn't even wobbling.

"What's going on?" Stephen demanded from the front doorstep, sounding completely freaked out. Sam glanced up at him.

" _HelpmegetthisoffDean!_ " he ordered, voice cracking.

Stephen, to his credit, didn't waste any time. He took one side of the carved ivory cabinet and Sam took the other, but nothing happened. They heaved until sweat was running down their faces, but it refused to budge. There was nothing they could do. The spirits were determined to keep Dean pinned.

"Man's best friend, my ass," Dean groaned, as Sam fell to his knees beside him. "You're gonna have to find those jars by yourself, man."

"Okay, I'm on it," Sam agreed, hastily. "Car keys?"

"Jeans pocket."

Sam dug for the keys and caught his breath as the cabinet lifted a few centimetres. Was it letting Dean go? Then he realised it was trying to trap his hand underneath it and whipped the keys away quickly. The ivory slammed down again, hard enough to make a disturbing "crunch". His brother gasped and shuddered, too winded to scream out loud.

Sam swore in frustration and grabbed Dean's free hand. "I'll be quick," he assured him, but his brother's eyes were flickering shut, his face pale and sick-looking. Sam felt his stomach turn over.

"He might have punctured a lung," Stephen observed, his voice tight; Sam had completely forgotten he was there. "He's definitely broken some ribs. I'll call an ambulance - I can't help him without my medical bag."

"The paramedics won't be able to do anything because the ghosts won't let him go," Sam explained, despairing. He squeezed Dean's hand one last time, then jumped to his feet. "I need to destroy their remains first. Look after him, but be careful. Are you wearing leather?"

Stephen looked completely nonplussed. "What? Erm… yes, my shoes."

"Take them off. Throw them outside. And keep your eyes open: they'll try to attack you too. Now, how do I get to the new university campus?"

Stephen gave him the directions and Sam fled. "Look after him!" he called out one last time, glancing back at the house. The lights were flashing on and off in every room and he could hear thumps and bumps against the walls.

It was like a zoo in there.

 

~ ~ ~

The university campus was a twenty minute drive away. Sam made it in ten, praying the whole time that no cops were on the lookout for ghost hunters driving like maniacs. He leapt out of the car when he drove by a campus map, ignoring the suspicious looks from some drunken students loitering nearby, and found the science building in an instant. He memorised the route to the biology lab before reaching into the Impala's trunk for his breaking and entering kit.

"Hey man," one of the students called after him as he ran towards the building. "Who are you? Batman? Is that your Batmobile?"

Two broken padlocks and a smashed window later, Sam marched into one of the classrooms and darted his torch around. Nothing. He tried the next one. Nothing. Fear growing in his belly, head throbbing in pain, he kicked open a door leading off the final classroom and found himself in a professor's study. He pulled open every cupboard, emptied every drawer, but to no avail.

Where _were_ they?

He ran from room to room in a panic, not caring if campus security spotted his torch flashing past the windows. Where else would the animals be if they weren't in the biology wing? He paused before another campus map, desperate for a clue. Physics… English… Earth sciences… He slammed his forehead into the map, groaning as lights flashed behind his eyes, and then looked again.

There it was: Veterinary Studies. The building next to this one.

If the bodies weren't in there, Dean was screwed.

Sam couldn't believe how careless he was being, smashing a window and climbing into the block without caring who heard, but if anyone tried to stop him they'd have to deal with a Winchester in full-on saving-his-brother's-life mode. Which, for the uninitiated, meant Sam could body-slam the Terminator itself and get away with it. Out of breath, he ran through the building until he came to the veterinary medicine wing… and almost cried with relief when he instantly spotted his goal.

They were sitting in a glass case in the foyer under a banner reading, "Clark Howson University. Acting against vivisection since 2001." Six glass jars filled with brackish brown liquid, each containing an animal: a cat, a puppy, some sort of lizard, a rat, a piglet and something Sam couldn't identify through the murky fluid. Sam slid open the cabinet and dragged the jars outside: even in such desperate straits, he knew it probably wasn't a good idea to set fire to them inside the building.

He emptied the jars onto the grass, gagging at the sharp smell of vinegar and formaldehyde, and poured petrol and salt on the slimy remains. He noticed that the sixth jar contained a shrivelled rabbit; then he set the pile of bedraggled bodies alight. The flames climbed high into the sky. He waited until he was convinced the animals had burned to a crisp, then sprinted back to the car as fast as his legs would carry him.

~ ~ ~

There was an ambulance outside the Templeton mansion when he screeched into the driveway. He dived out of the car and through the front door just in time to see his brother being scooped onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask over his mouth. His eyes were closed and he looked awful; grey, his face pinched and strained. Stephen was talking with the paramedics, pointing at Dean's chest. He glanced up at Sam in surprise and gave him a tired smile. Sam saw there was a cut on his forehead, but he looked okay.

"All of a sudden it just slid off him," he said, nodding towards the lifeless cabinet a few feet away. "Like it decided to give up."

"How is he?"

The paramedics nudged past him, carrying his brother out to the ambulance. Stephen followed. "His chest is crushed, but I'm not sure how seriously. I think it's mostly broken ribs and no lung damage, though, because his breathing's regular. Don't worry, I know the ER team at Mission Hospital and they'll treat him right. I'll make sure of it."

"Thanks." Sam clenched his fists and stood on the doorstep, watching the paramedics tuck a blanket over Dean and adjust his oxygen mask. When they slammed the doors he sprinted over to the car, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach and the ache in his head.

"Uh, Sam?"

He glanced back at Stephen, standing awkwardly on the gravel driveway. "Yeah?"

The surgeon gave him a wan smile. "Is it safe to put my shoes back on again now?"

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

_Epilogue_

 

If Dean didn't turn off his PlayStation in the next five seconds, Sam was going to kill him.

It wasn't so much the fact that he kept talking to the television screen as though it could hear him ("Yeah, come on! You like that? You like that, bitch? How about this? Die, you little sons of bitches! Die!"). It was more the fact that he hadn't looked at Sam once since he'd arrived for visiting hours, talking to him sideways out of his mouth with his eyes fixed on the game.

It was starting to tick him off.

"Right, that's it," Dean announced suddenly, and flicked off the TV. "If I play any more of that my eyes are going to fall outta my head."

Thank god, thought Sam.

Dean reached out to get a drink from the table next to his bed, fighting to keep his discomfort hidden as his ribs shouted hello. Sam intercepted his hand and gave him the drink instead, knowing that Dean was a genius when it came to hiding how much pain he was really in. Their adventure last week had left his brother pretty messed up; he'd broken two ribs and cracked three others, not to mention earning a bruise on his chest so large it ran from his collarbone down to his hips. Sam lived in fear of watching his brother sneeze and then pass out from the pain.

"Thanks, dude," Dean grunted, settling back into the pillows and sipping his juice. He rubbed his chest contemplatively. "This is getting real old now. I want it to be _over_."

"Yeah, well," Sam said, smoothly. "At least the Templetons are looking after you." The private hospital Stephen had picked for Dean's recovery was amazing. Widescreen TV, computer games, fantastic food - and, as Dean kept pointing out, the nurses were hot. Really hot. He was being discharged tomorrow and Sam had noted some of them were looking distraught. Oh, his brother's silvery tongue… Not that Dean was in any shape to do anything with their attentions. Sam wasn't even sure he'd be able to drive for another fortnight at least.

"I suppose so," Dean sighed, misjudging how hard to breathe in and clenching his jaw at the result. Then he peered over at his visitor and forced a grin. "How's Clara? I hear she asked you round for cake this morning."

Sam blinked. "Dude, how on earth could you know that?"

Dean's eyes glinted wickedly and he waved his cellphone in the air. "Martha loves to talk."

Sam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Well, she showed me photos of her late husband and talked about how she'd decided to go to a medium and contact him. I think we've created a monster, bro."

Dean opened his mouth to laugh, thought better of it in case it rattled his ribs, then closed it again. "I'm surprised Martha's not trying to contact her dearly departed dog," he said instead. "It must be weird, knowing your pet was the one who set all this off. If he hadn't died those ghosts would've stayed down. And I wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, it's kind of hard to believe a bunch of lab animals nearly killed you. I guess now's the time to go vegetarian, man. That way you'll never have to worry about his happening again."

Dean frowned. "Don't worry. I keep having nightmares about hunks of meat flying through the air. I'm off cows and pigs for a while. Doesn't stop me munching on the odd chicken wing, though."

Sam stared out of the window, chewing the inside of his lip.

"Come on, I know that face. What's going on in that freakish brain of yours, Sammy boy?"

"I was just thinking about what happened," Sam said quietly. "We assumed those animals were evil, didn't we?"

"Well, duh. I think the fact they tried to kill me twice pretty much wins that argument." He shot Sam an annoyed look. "What, are you saying they were just misunderstood? Which part of them nearly garotting me with somebody's knitting makes them the good guys? Or were they trying to tell me they loved me when they dumped that cabinet on my chest and sat on it for half an hour?"

Sam leaned forward, ignoring the sarcasm. "Look at it like this. They were murdered, dissected by a bunch of students and then stuffed into jars and placed on display for the world to see. If they'd been human beings we'd completely get why they were pissed. They had good cause, Dean."

His brother mulled it over for a moment. "So you're hoping that this will be a learning experience for me. That I'll see things from their side and forgive and forget. Burn my leather jacket, buy synthetic clothes from now on and make sure I don't use any products tested on animals."

Sam cocked his head to one side - and maybe it was just the conversation they were having, but he looked for all the world like a puppy staring up at its master. "Well, it couldn't hurt."

Dean gazed at him like he'd just suggested Ozzy Osbourne had an IQ of 250 and was the president of the United Nations.

"Sam," he said, seriously. "Are you suggesting I tear out the seats in the Impala and replace them with fake leather? Cause if you are, so help me, I'll call a doctor and get them to straitjacket you _right now_."

"Oh yeah," Sam said. "I guess I never thought of that."

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
